by Candace Robb
‘Pay him no heed, Maggie,’ Andrew said sharply, his face red.
‘It would seem the clergy are the scapegoats for the town,’ Margaret said.
‘I told him he was better off at home,’ Murdoch grumbled as he sat down beside Margaret. ‘Keep the peace, that is the duty of a taverner. I won’t abide such talk. It starts brawls. I’ll not have it.’
Andrew had already risen and was fumbling with his cloak. ‘Watch over Maggie, Uncle,’ he said. It seemed to Margaret that he was trying to avoid looking anyone in the eye. He blessed them both, then with bowed head made his way through the crowd to the street door and departed.
Sim placed a trencher, the hollowed centre filled with a milky oat and broth paste, before Margaret. ‘I took one up to your maid,’ he said.
‘That was kind,’ said Margaret.
She had not known whether she could eat. But once she inhaled the steam rising off the oats, she could not help but break off a piece of the hard crust of bread and scoop up a mouthful. Her stomach received the hot food gladly.
‘I thought you’d have an appetite after that journey,’ Murdoch said. ‘It is the sort of thing your mother would do—making that journey in a storm.’
Margaret ignored him and ate.
Murdoch was quiet, tapping his feet to the music for a time.
‘Are all the canons blamed for their abbot’s support of Longshanks?’ she asked him after a while.
Murdoch grunted. ‘If you would be wise, keep to yourself and trust none in this town, Maggie.’
Not comforting advice. But at least he seemed resigned to her staying. For the moment.
4
Not a Good Beginning
Murdoch had given Margaret and Celia his chamber. It was far cleaner than the room beside it, in which they had talked earlier, and boasted a shuttered window and a wooden door.
Celia stood ready to help Margaret undress. ‘Let me help you with your boots, mistress.’
Margaret’s boots had tightened as they dried. Now her feet hurt, though she had not noticed the pain until Celia mentioned the boots. She sat down on the one high-backed chair in the room—it squeaked when she leaned against the back. But her head felt so heavy she thought she would topple if she did not sit back. The chair held, but Celia was now ready for Margaret to stand to be unlaced from her kirtle.
At last Celia stood beside the curtained bed, a sheepskin in hand with which to crown the blankets and linens. As Margaret slipped her cold feet between the covers, she found Celia had warmed the bed with a hot stone and left it down at the foot. Margaret was grateful for the cosseting.
Lying there, feeling her tired body ease into the mattress, she prayed she would fall asleep at once. But the bed, though comfortable, was unfamiliar, the sounds from the tavern below intrusive and now and again jarring. All in all, conducive not to sleep but to worry. Her chest tightened and she had to will herself to breathe. With breath came tears. Useless, embarrassing tears. She tugged the curtains closed so Celia did not witness her weakness.
In a little while Celia crawled in to the bed from the other side, but she said nothing.
Church bells woke Margaret. For a moment she lay still beneath the piled coverlets getting her bearings. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and burned when she blinked. Her head pounded. She must do better than this. Her time here might be brief if Murdoch did not soften towards her presence. She must put her fears aside and plan her search for Roger.
A full bladder sent her sliding out of the warm bed down to the cold floor, where she fumbled about for the chamber pot.
‘I put the chamber pot outside the door,’ Celia said in a drowsy voice. ‘I shall fetch it.’
‘I can fetch my own chamber pot. I mean to go to Mass at St Giles’ if I can dress quickly enough.’ Margaret hoped it might comfort her, give her strength.
‘Widow Sinclair would not want her gooddaughter handling a chamber pot.’ Celia groaned as she sat up. ‘I must dress you. You must make a good impression.’
‘There is no need. None will mark me.’
‘I need to move about.’ Celia rose with much effort, lit another lamp from the brazier.
The light gave Margaret a better view of the wooden bolt that secured the door from within. The wood was worn smooth where it slid across the braces. To protect her uncle as he slept? She unbolted the door, peered without and found that the full pot had been exchanged for an empty one. The servants at least understood that basic service.
Celia groped at her cap, stuffing her hair inside, tugging at her dress to smooth it. It had fallen from its hook in the night and dried wrinkled. ‘This evening I shall take more care with my gown.’ She looked dishevelled and sleepy. She winced as she moved about.
‘You need not accompany me,’ Margaret said, feeling her own stiffness from the saddle.
But Celia insisted, and fussed with Margaret’s attire.
The wind caught their skirts on the stairs and tugged at Margaret’s veil. A cat streaked across the yard, vanished. Old bean vines rattled over new growth. The two women slipped out to the alley between the two tall houses, emerging on the High Street. On the climb to St Giles’ in the early morning grey the only living creatures they saw were rats and a well-bundled person sweeping the street outside a shop. It was too early for shops to be open or the market set up, but not too early for market carts to be arriving in the town, or for folk to be leading their livestock to graze, and there were none of those. It felt as if everyone in the town held their breath.
The Mass bell rang as they were halfway up the hill. Margaret gathered her skirts in her hands and walked faster. Celia tried to keep up, but eventually fell back, complaining that she was out of breath. Ignoring her, Margaret arrived at the kirk door, tidied herself, and slipped in. She hurried to join the worshippers standing towards the choir, where the rood screen separated them from the clergy. Celia limped to her side a moment later.
Her fellows numbered less than on a typical day in St John’s, her kirk in Perth, and far fewer than in the abbey at Dunfermline. From the crowd in the tavern the previous evening, Margaret had expected more. Perhaps the folk who stayed in town preferred to get their courage from ale, not prayer.
The singing calmed her, as if the voices moved through her. She bowed her head, prayed for God’s help for her mission, for Roger’s safety and for Jack’s soul. For Katherine, her goodmother, who must be feeling quite alone with Margaret and Celia away. There were other servants in the house, but none with whom her goodmother might talk about her grieving for Jack. Fifteen years Roger’s junior, Jack had been a comfort to Katherine when her own son had gone out into the world. Though Jack had been living in Perth the past six years as Roger’s factor, he had not forgotten the aunt who raised him, returning to Dunfermline for feast days several times a year.
Margaret fought past the memory of Jack’s corpse, back to an evening a few months past. He had arrived at her house to dine, his cheeks bright from the cold, his blond hair glistening with melting snowflakes. When the maid left them to take Jack’s cloak to the kitchen to dry, he had grabbed Margaret’s hand, holding it for a long moment with his head bent to it. She remembered the feel of his breath tickling her. She had been in a reckless mood and had let him take his time kissing her hand. He had been so close she could smell wood shavings from the warehouse on his boots and wine on his breath.
‘You opened a shipment of wine and brought none for me?’ she had teased when he at last let go of her hand.
When Roger was away Jack dined with Margaret on Saturdays and told her how the business was going. What merchandise had arrived from Germany or the Lowlands—wine, finished wool cloth, pottery, how much wool and leather goods they were shipping out. She enjoyed the dinners, feeling more a part of Roger’s business than when he was at home.
It was after Martinmas that she had begun to notice how often she thought of Jack, and how she looked forward to Saturdays, fussing over her dress, helping the cook mak
e Jack’s favourite dishes. He was a handsome man with a cheerful humour who appreciated her intelligence. And yet he could be an exasperating tease; he enjoyed the effect he had on her as he did all women. She should not have encouraged his attentions. But it was difficult to separate all her feelings for him into proper and improper. She had not wished to offend him; she valued him too much as a good and loyal friend. And truth be told, she had enjoyed being appreciated as a desirable woman.
She fought the vision of his bloated body in the shroud, the horrible wounds. Holy Mother of God, Roger must be alive. They must be given a chance to have children, to have joy of one another. They had been separated so often she felt she had only begun to know Roger, only just stopped being tongue-tied and in awe of him.
Margaret did not know what would become of her if her search led to a corpse. Her father was in Bruges, her mother at Elcho Nunnery, Andrew in the Kirk, Fergus so young. Her heart lurched as a new fear arose. If Jack’s murder had any connection with Roger’s trading, Fergus might be in danger, all alone in Perth. Sweet Jesus, watch over Fergus. Help him know his enemies.
But none were safe with Edward Longshanks set on claiming the kingdom of Scotland. All knew how the Welsh had suffered. Many Scots had fought on Longshanks’ side in that slaughter. She had heard it whispered that it was God’s retribution for that they were now slaughtered in turn. But the dead of Berwick had been traders, merchants, not soldiers. And the English went unpunished. Folk said Longshanks was old now, and bitter with disappointment in his heir, which made him cruel. Dear Lord, let him die and his weak son turn his eyes inwards, give up this battering of Lothian, the humiliation of our king, John Balliol.
And bring Roger home. Her greatest fear was of being left alone, penniless and with an overwhelming grief, of use to no one and without even the means to withdraw into a nunnery. I am too young for this, Lord, I’ve had no life yet. Foolish prayer. Babies died everyday. And young mothers. Who was she to expect any different treatment from God?
She glanced round at her fellow worshippers. The English lived in their midst now. She wondered what their thoughts were this morning. The man with the scab on his bald pate. Was he mourning someone killed in the fighting, praying for deliverance from the English, or merely trying to keep himself from scratching the tender spot? What of the woman in the fine mantle beside her? She kept her eyes down, but her hands moved as if she were examining them. They looked swollen, much like Margaret’s did after laundry day. The mantle must be her finest. Such delicate wool, woven loosely. Not warm, but lovely. The gown beneath the mantle was difficult to make out in the dim light.
Someone behind Margaret stank of urine, no doubt a cure for boils or foot ulcers. A woman muttered her prayers accompanied by gentle clicking sounds—she must have Pater Noster beads. That is what Margaret should have done to keep her mind on her prayers. She reached into the scrip she wore on her girdle; her fingers touched the loom weight among the beads. Such a light weight might be used to add to a weight that did not quite balance with its opposite. It might also be used for fine work. Like the mantle she had been admiring.
As people began to take their leave, Margaret turned to look at the woman beside her. Her profile and her walk pricked a memory, but Margaret could not place her.
‘I could not help but notice your mantle,’ said Margaret.
Never meeting her gaze, the woman turned and hastened away.
‘And why would anyone talk to a stranger with things as they are in the town?’ Celia said.
Indeed. But if someone had spoken thus to Margaret she would have been too curious to resist a glance in their direction.
Outside St Giles’ a fog had moved in from the firth, rounding the corners of buildings, foreshortening the street. Margaret paused to get her bearings. Gradually the worshippers disappeared and the two women were alone but for the sweeper they had passed earlier, who had covered much distance since they had climbed the hill.
‘Does he sweep all the town?’ Margaret wondered aloud.
‘I believe he is watching us,’ Celia said as she looked the other way.
‘Let us disappoint him with a brisk walk back to the inn.’
Margaret’s spine tingled as they neared the man. She could not resist a ‘God bless you’ as she passed him.
‘Bless ’e,’ the man muttered.
The exchange calmed her. He might be precisely what he seemed, a street sweeper. She must not let the atmosphere in the town frighten her.
‘St Columba!’ Celia cried as she tripped, pitching forward into a puddle.
Margaret reached out to help her up, but Celia waved her away. ‘You will muddy your sleeves.’
The woman was mad worrying about another’s clothing when she was on her hands and knees in a puddle. Margaret grabbed Celia by the waist and supported her as she rose.
‘I stumbled on a rock,’ Celia muttered.
Margaret guessed that the maid’s stiffness from the previous day’s ride had caused her to stumble over her own skirt.
‘Holy Mother,’ Celia cried as she shook out her skirts, ‘look at the mud.’ A patch of her plaid mantle and the skirt of her russet gown were the same dark grey-brown. She brushed her hands together and muttered a curse.
‘Are you injured?’ Margaret took Celia’s hands, turning them palms up. A few pebbles were lodged in the sticky mud, but though the skin at the edges looked red there was no blood. ‘No cuts, that’s a blessing. Let’s get you back to our chamber.’
They continued slowly, Celia pausing several times to brush her hands as the mud dried.
Behind Murdoch’s inn was a garden patch with the brown, slimy remains of the past harvest, and beyond it a low building whence came smoke and enticing smells. The kitchen, Margaret guessed.
‘Go up, take off those wet clothes, and warm yourself,’ she told Celia. ‘I shall follow soon.’
Margaret headed for the small building. This was not where she had thought to find her uncle, but there he stood stirring something in a large pot. And watching the door with a black look.
‘Where have you been?’ he demanded.
‘At St Giles’. Celia and I went to Mass.’
‘Mass? After such a journey, and without an escort? Did I not tell you the women of Edinburgh cannot safely go about without an escort? Do you not know what soldiers are like? Half of them are felons pardoned by Longshanks to serve in his army.’
‘You mentioned the laundresses yesterday. But there were other women at Mass.’
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head. ‘The trouble with your being here is I’ll spend all my time worrying.’
‘I am a married woman and run my own household. I do not need tending.’
‘This place is nothing like your household.’ Murdoch grabbed two bowls from a shelf, a ladle from a hook. His motions were not hesitant—he knew where everything was. ‘Had you the patience I would have brought some of this up to you myself. A soup with winter roots, a bit of coney and even some beef.’
‘God bless you. I am starving.’
‘Sit down.’ He ladled some soup into a bowl.
‘Celia should have some of this,’ Margaret said.
‘In good time. You are the mistress.’
‘She fell in the High Street. She’s wet and muddy.’
‘Is she injured?’
‘Only her gown, I think.’
‘Thank the Lord you women are protected by all your skirts and mantles. Now sit. She will still be peeling off the layers.’
Margaret sat down on a bench, put the bowl on a window sill and wondered at the amount of meat she stirred up with her spoon. The English would have it if they knew it was here.
‘Do you cook for the tavern?’ she asked after several spoonfuls.
‘I cook for myself, no others. I have a cook for the tavern.’
‘This is not the tavern kitchen?’
‘That is farther in the backland.’
It was a large kitchen for one ma
n. ‘Might I dry Celia’s wet clothing in here?’
Murdoch’s short eyebrow twitched. ‘I’ll not have it. There’s a brazier in your chamber.’
‘It will be for ever drying. A good cook fire’s what’s needed.’
‘Ask my tavern cook—Roy’s his name. His kitchen’s behind the next cottage—where the chambermaid bides when we have one.’
Not wanting to outstay her welcome, Margaret took her leave as soon as she was finished and carried a bowl of the fine soup and a chunk of dark bread up to Celia. The maid ate hastily, then gathered her wet clothes and set out for the tavern kitchen, hoping to wash out the mud before the stains set in.
Margaret felt weary to the bone, but when she lay down and closed her eyes, she felt them fluttering behind the lids as if trying to catch passing ghosts, and every creak set her heart racing. She thought it might help to get her bearings, that she might rest more easily once she had seen more of the inn, the backland, the town, and understood the sounds.
The rain had stopped, though the stiff breeze carried its scent. The backland stretched out behind Murdoch’s kitchen. The chambermaid’s lodging was a shed half the size of his kitchen, wattle and daub with a thatch roof. Margaret pushed at the door. Inside it was dusty and smelled of damp. There was a platform for a bed, a shelf for a candle, and a stool. A shuttered window faced back to Murdoch’s kitchen. Water puddled in a corner of the packed earth floor. It was a simple room, but with a brazier, a good oil lamp, and a wattle screen by the bed to block the draught from the window it would be as comfortable as many simple homes. With the leak that had caused the puddle fixed it could be the best home a servant had ever had. Margaret must ask her uncle what had happened to the maid.
Stepping out, she shut the door behind her and turned the corner to continue down the backland to the tavern kitchen. She thought she might come to Celia’s aid if necessary.
The tavern kitchen was twice the size of the chambermaid’s lodging, with a tile roof, smoke coming from the smoke hole in the centre, benches lining the outside wall either side of the door. Raised voices, Celia’s and a man’s, came from within.
